


The Tiger and The Eagle Went to Sea in a Beautiful Pea Green Boat

by imaginarycircus



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, Prompt Fic, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginarycircus/pseuds/imaginarycircus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzie and Darcy occupy themselves while waiting for room service in their suite the night of their wedding. Title blatantly rips off Edward Lear's poem "The Owl and the Pussycat."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tiger and The Eagle Went to Sea in a Beautiful Pea Green Boat

**Author's Note:**

> [ willyouwontyou and shutyouruglydumptruckface and squishycupcake: I have this headcanon where when Darcy and Lizzie get married, as a small wedding gift, Jane takes Lizzie’s costume theater bow tie and turns it into a garter and it would be adorable and cute and just imagine darcy’s reaction when he sees that am i right?](http://will-you-wont-you.tumblr.com/post/44197038742)

No one ever tells you that you’ll stumble into your hotel room kind of tipsy and absolutely starving. So tired you’re almost floating. The bride never gets to eat at her own wedding except for that mouthful of cake it took you three hours to select two months ago and which William thankfully did not smash all over your face. (You’re glad you chose red velvet. It was one of the few things you did not have to fight your mother on.)

You eat the chocolates on the pillows before your brand new husband is able to toe off his shoes and sit down in a chair. You have no idea if he ate anything today either because you were too busy answering the same three questions over and over to three hundred and twenty-two guests. It would have been easier to Tweet out the info or hold up a placard. Except Aunt Eunice has cataracts and you’d still have to have read it to her and then spent twenty minutes explaining that you’re her great niece and she’s at your wedding and no, you haven’t married Johnnie. He’s your cousin. You married the very tall man in the bow tie over there by the cake looking like he’s about to be marched onto The Somme at the height of the battle. He loves crowds that much.

“Lizzie. We can order room service.” Darcy watches in amusement as you tear open the minibar and inhale two tiny Toblerones and half a can of smoked almonds even though you can see that a can small enough to fit a single mouse costs twelve bucks.

Your blood sugar starts to rise feebly and you can sit down and look at the room service menu without seeing spots.

Everything. You want to eat everything on the menu and in the room, including the furniture and draperies. You haven’t eaten since that half a piece of toast you nibbled nervously at six am that morning. The previous morning, actually.

William Darcy knows you so well now that he picks up the phone and orders you challah french toast with whipped cream and strawberries, a side of roasted brussels sprouts and a split of champagne. It’s weird, but it’s exactly what you want.

You wilt a little when he tells you it will take forty-five minutes. Then you remember that under the silk of your skirt, and the layers of tulle (though not anything like the ungodly cake of a dress your mother wanted to wrestle you into) you’re wearing a surprise for him. You know from experience that you can do a lot in forty-five minutes. Besides you’re newly married. The hotel is too fancy to call it a “honeymoon suite” but it is and wouldn’t they pretty much throw you out if they found you politely playing pinochle while fully dressed on your wedding night?

All the books you read (you kept them hidden so no one (meaning Lydia) would make fun of you) on weddings advise you not to have high hopes for wedding night sex. They warn that there’s too much pressure for it to be perfect. You’ll be too exhausted. Don’t have unreasonable expectations. Those books failed to tell you you’d be hungry enough to consider eating you husband’s socks. 

You look at Darcy. You’re not trying to be sultry, but he knows what you’re thinking and he sits back a little in his chair, smirking. You pull yourself to your feet and slide into his lap—your dress spilling everywhere, a waterfall of silk charmeuse.

“Hello there, husband.” The word pleases you in ways you never imagined. You’re planning to use it as much as possible in the near future. Yeah, you’re a nerd, but that’s why he loves you.

You kiss him and he kisses you back and it’s your first real married kiss, because the ones in front of other people don’t count. You were too busy thinking about how weird it is that you were kissing in front of a large audience and they were clapping for you.

Your kisses become increasingly intense and heated and more perfect and your hands are doing things backwards. You’ve got the bottom half of his shirt untucked and unbuttoned, but he’s still wearing his coat and tie. You don’t care because you can touch his warm skin and dip your fingers into the waist of his boxers, skimming the smooth skin at his hips. No belt. He wore suspenders. He never took off his jacket, but you knew. You’d felt the straps over his shoulders through the fine black wool of his tuxedo jacket during your first dance.

“Lizzie. I love you, but you’re strangling me.” He bats your hands away and tugs off his tie and his jacket, tossing them to the floor. You’ve only seen William throw his clothing on the floor one other time and that was the first night you stayed over. You push his suspenders off and your hands tangle as you fight to undo the top of his stiff white shirt.

His hands are wandering all over the back of your dress and you wonder what he’s doing and why he isn’t touching other parts of you that are aching. Then you realize.

“It zippers on the side,” you explain. You stand up and turn so that he can unhook and unzip, letting your dress fall away from you like a pale cocoon.

You’re wearing a white corset, white stockings, with lace garters, and white underwear. You are like fresh snow or a blank canvas—except for the splash of crimson on your thigh. It seems oddly symbolic and like something out of a novel.

“Is that?” Darcy reaches out and brushes his fingers over the cheap old snap on bow tie everyone wore for Costume Theater. You nod, but you really don’t need to because it’s not like he’d fail to recognize it.

He’s still seated and he looks up at you, searching for something. Words. He wants to say something, but he can’t. You take his face in your hands and say, “I know.”

The next thing you know you’ve been scooped up and carried into the bedroom. The bed could sleep five large truck drivers. It’s kind of ridiculous, but he’d wanted to carry you over the threshold of the hotel room and you hadn’t let him because it made you feel really self conscious. Also you don’t live in this hotel room. Maybe when the nine guests in your apartment leave and you can go home—he can do it then.

He tosses you onto the bed and if that’s how it’s going to be, you are certainly not going to complain. You tug him onto the bed and at some point he loses his shirt and his pants and his socks. You know you helped with that, but it’s kind of a blur.

You’re waiting for him to unhook all your trappings and when he doesn’t you try to do it yourself.

“No.” He takes your hands and kisses both palms.

“Uh. I have to take these off for this to work.”

For such a long time you thought of him as still, placid—unruffled. But that’s a front—a shell designed to protect him. He can be quick, even rough in the same way a dog who thinks its small sometimes jumps on you and nearly knocks you ass over teakettle. Your corset vanishes in an instant. It winds up poking your hip and you shove it off the edge of the bed and push him over so that he is beneath you.

You pause for a moment to take your hair down because you know it will make him antsy, but that he will wait until you make a move. You hold his gaze and scatter the small, white star-shaped stephanotis from your hair over him like a blessing. He’s flushed and kiss bruised and mussed. He looks tired, but so happy it makes something in your chest shatter. It’s the good kind of fracture though, the kind that frees something that had been trapped before. It aches, but in the best way.

You kiss him, not just with your lips and tongue and teeth—but with everything you are and everything you have. He kisses you right back and flips you over onto your back again. He knows all your sensitive spots and nips at them as he moves down your body. A nip at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, a flick of the tongue over your carotid pulse. A kiss on each breast. You want him to go faster, but you want it to last forever.

He senses your frustration, probably from the way your hands are tangled in his hair and the sounds you’re making and the way you’re arching beneath him.

You expect him to unclip the tabs holding up your stockings. You do not expect him to shoot you one fevered glance, smirk, and tear the flimsy lace underpants you’re wearing apart so that you’re free of them, but still wearing your stockings, garters, and the decorative bow tie.

It’s the bow tie, you realize, he wants to leave it on. Another symbol? Well, this really isn’t the time to contemplate literary theory. Also he’s kissing you again. He’s naked and he’s pushing his way into you and you’re pretty sure nothing has ever felt this good before.

This must be what it feels like to run full speed off a cliff. You’re falling and you’re not afraid of the crash at the bottom. The crash is the entire marvelous point.

Neither of you has caught your breath; you’re still clinging to each other when there’s a rap on the door and some announces, “Room service.”

William heaves himself out of the bed and into one of the hotel’s robes before you can dive under the sheets. He closes the bedroom door most of the way and returns moments later carrying a large tray. The robe is slipping because he tied it so hastily and you wonder if the waiter got an eyeful and if he enjoyed it.

You eat all the food together, feeding each other bites and accidentally dripping maple syrup on your thigh. William gently pushes you back and licks the syrup off, careful to get it all. There’s no room service induced time limit now.

Once the syrup is taken care of he goes for the red bow tie with his teeth, his hands anchoring your hips to the mattress. The bow tie is tossed aside and he removes your white stockings with fingers so eager they poke through the sheer fabric. You can feel the ladders burst open all down your legs.

“Easy there, Tiger.”

He stills and raises an eyebrow. GiGi and Fitz had worn tiger and eagle temporary tattoos to the wedding. They were almost happier than you and William. Almost.

You have to help him unclip the garter belt because you like it and you know there’s a short window before he’ll shred it. There’s a time for gentle and sweet, but you are both too wound up for that even though this is round two. It’s been a long damn day. It’s been a long couple of months in truth.

He falls onto his back taking you with him. That broken thing in your chest rattles again because this man who does not cede control to anyone—cedes it to you so easily, and not just control over his body, control over his heart, over his daily existence. If you think about it too much you get dizzy. You place the palms of you hands on his chest and notice you haven’t moved your engagement ring back to your left hand yet. You pause, straddling him, and change it. He laughs and it’s almost your favorite sound, excepting his heart beat. If that makes you a cheese ball—you don’t care. You kiss him, both breaking into giggles because you’re exhausted and the stress bubble has finally popped. You can tell he wants to grab your hips and slide himself into you. He’s not patient, though you can’t tell unless you know him well enough.

You’re too tired to tease and too desperate. You ease yourself down onto him and sit for a moment, just a second to appreciate that you are married to this man. You thought you hated him once, but you’re not sure anymore. You were never indifferent—always passionate. You both were. You always will be.

It lasts longer this time and he lets you set the pace. Your body won’t let you go fast, but you both get where you’re going and collapse into one another smelling of sweat and crushed white flowers.

You fall asleep with your hair partially trapped under his arm, thinking that this is the rest of your lives and how did you ever get so lucky?

**Author's Note:**

> This is middle of the night insomnia fic that I vomited out. Concrit and pointing out of typos entirely welcome. Concrit is always welcome.


End file.
